Exodus, Stage Left
by Culinary Cowboy
Summary: Youth of Sin City 1 of 3. Clint Washington wants out of Basin City. He can't take anymore of its backalleys or bars. He just needs to get passed some people who want him dead to do it.


**Just to clarify. These stories are not some cheap rendition of when the original cast was younger or of their children either. Some characters are mine and some are Frank's. And it is set in the view of Basin City's underprivileged youth. Please cast honest opinions when reviewing. Warning: this is my first Sin city Fan-fic and it's not my last.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything made by Frank Miller**

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"Why does it always rain?" This life I have been living is one of sorrow and hope at the same time. I sat on a fire escape in old town contemplating my next move. A can of cold Hawaiian Punch was starting to numb my hand. I felt a soft vibration of the cold metal underneath me. I took another sip of the sweet liquid before I realized that I was not alone. Miho. "It's getting easier for me now. You sure you're not getting sloppy?" No answer, there never is. She doesn't need to speak we communicate differently then most people. We used our touch, our movement, and our eyes. It was easiest through the eyes. "You cold?" I slid out of my letterman's jacket and before I could set it down thin, steely fingers snatched it from my hand. The broads below us were strutting their stuff for the few passer-byes looking for a good time. I didn't look but I knew that the Japanese assassin had sat herself down next to me with my jacket clenched tight around her. I took another sip of my HP and snuck a glance in her direction. She was leaning against the corner bar of the escape. Her eyes turned upward towards the raining heavens. Praise Jah for people like her, they kept me going. A glinting at her side caught my eye. It was her Swastika glave. It reminded me of why I was there. A gang of nazi's killed my parents when I was an infant. So I was left with my Uncle Gamba in the projects. No, wait that's the lie. A year ago I learned the truth. I finished off my drink as I reminisced back to Kwanzaa of last year. It was just Uncle Gamba; a woman named Tisha who lived next to us, and me sitting around the table covered in food and presents. We just finished our first course when Uncle Gamba handed me a box wrapped in brown paper.

"Dis one is-special." He told me in his island accent. His smile gave me confidence in whatever surprise the box held. I tore at the wrapping once then stopped. My glance went from Gamba to the box and back to Gamba.

"What's wrong child? Go ahead." Miss Tisha encouraged me. I just felt guilty.

"What about you two? I got presents for you, don't you…" The new look on my uncle's face told me not to question his intentions.

"We've got a heap of time for those." Miss Tisha tried to break the tension. "Go ahead child." I started back into the present, and Gamba's outlook changed back to its cheerful side. The paper fell then the top of the box and their it was. A framed picture of my parents when they first met in Trinidad sat wedged between my hands. Uncle saw my smile mixed with a little confusion, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

"It's time my son I told you a little tale."

That's when it came out. My parents were never killed; they were merely chased out of town. I was lied to for my own protection. My uncle thought I would try getting revenge on my own while I was still inexperienced. From then on I was raised on the teachings of Malcolm X. Although I'm not a Muslim I was taught that we, minorities, must defend ourselves from injustice. After I learned the truth I pondered what my parents were like and how I might of lived under their care. I could have been the Mercutio, helping our people out of ignorance while stepping between their quarrels. Instead I became the Tibult, defending my people's honor through violence and death. I was more famous as Tibult, but that does not make it better then the Mercutio. I snapped out of my daze to find that I had crushed the can in my hand and that the torn metal had left a nice gash as well. I don't mind, instead I just threw the can over my shoulder and used my wife-beater to wrap my hand. Once again I glanced over to the deadly beauty next to me. She slept silently, part of my jacket (the only possession I kept from my school days) had slipped off her shoulder. I got up as softly as I could, and slowly set the girl's thin body on her side as I spread my jacket over her like a blanket. Her body moved in a fashion that told me she was actually awake but decided to humor me. Then I spotted him the guy I've been waiting for all night.

"Stucka." His name sounded as it would the plague a few hundred years ago would. "Keep the jacket." I whispered in Miho's ear as I tied my dreads behind my head. My lips grazed her cheek in a quick prick. "I won't need it were I'm going."

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**That's it another rewritten story don't worry I am re writing the first chapter of Back in the habit as well. Please R& R. Stay Strong.**


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